


a quieter tomorrow

by aloneintherain



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Domestic, Emotional support animal, Future Fic, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Season 4, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, and live on a small farm out in the countryside, like they deserve, martin and jon are traumatised but they're alive and happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:48:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23293501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aloneintherain/pseuds/aloneintherain
Summary: After the world has been stitched back together, Martin and Jon move to the Scottish countryside. Just them, their cows and chickens and their cat, Beans. And the occasional visitor.Or: Jon and Martin get the domestic retirement that they deserve.
Relationships: Helen & Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 29
Kudos: 408





	a quieter tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Posting this before season 5 kills me. I know season 5 canon is going to go in a totally different direction and undermine me, but let me have this happy-ish ending. At least for now. Martin and Jon deserve to move to the Scottish countryside (WITHOUT Jonah fucking them over) and own cows and chickens. Let me have this.
> 
> They also have an emotional support animal, Beans. She’s technically Jon’s cat, but she helps Martin out too. They also rent out their spare rooms to tourists on Air BnB. The company helps. And Martin loves taking care of people.
> 
> Warnings for general trauma/ptsd. Nothing too detailed.

One winter morning, years after the world was stitched back together, Jon wakes to Beans pawing at his face.

He gasps up at the watermarked ceiling. The nightmare is murky, already slipping out of his mind, but the fear lingers. Beans butts her head against his cheek with increasing insistence, until Jon finds the strength to push her away and sit up.

“Thank you, Beans,” Jon says, voice hoarse. He cleans his wet face with his sleeves. “You wouldn’t happen to know where Martin’s gone, would you?”

Beans blinks lazily at him. Jon strokes her, letting the last wisps of his nightmare dissipate, before climbing out of bed.

Stillness has settled over the house. Tourists rarely come this time of year, though they get the odd few that underestimate Scotland’s winters. Jon enjoys the off-season, but he finds himself missing the eccentric backpackers. They always liven up the house.

He finds Martin in the kitchen, rhythmically stirring a bowl of something pink and sweet-smelling. His eyes are glassy. Distant.

Jon pads closer. Beans gets to Martin first, clawing at his pant leg and meowing insistently up at him. Martin startles. Comes back to himself.

“Jon. How long have you been up?”

“Not long,” Jon says, scooping up Beans. “You?”

Martin shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Jon touches Martin’s shoulder. Martin shudders and leans away from him, and Jon tries not to be hurt.

This is another reason why Jon misses the seasonal lodgers. With guests to care for, Martin doesn’t lose himself as often. The quiet isn’t so quiet. The nights aren’t as long.

But it’s alright. This isn’t their first winter. Jon knows how to bring Martin back.

“We never finished that podcast,” Jon starts. “The one on the terrible space station?”

“I thought you didn’t like it.”

Jon huffs. Beans squirms out of his arms and onto the counter. “I never said that. I just Know when stories completely muddle the science. I can’t help it.”

“Sci-Fi doesn’t need to be accurate, though. You’re supposed to suspend your disbelief—and really, Jon, what have I said about letting Beans climb all over the counter?”

Beans has made her way to the sink, where dirty bowls have been left to soak. She’s trying to eat the dough clinging to the dishes, and squeaks when Martin scoops her up and deposits her in the living room.

“Hungry?” Martin asks. Jon shrugs, looks away. “I’ll make scrambled eggs.”

“Martin—”

“You didn’t eat dinner last night. And I saw you picking at your lunch.”

Jon makes a face. He’s always hungry, yes, but every day, he craves something new. Company. Touch. Other people’s fear. The reassuring weight of a tape recorder in his hands.

Not eggs.

But Martin is in front of him, frowning, tired and soft in the dawn light filtering through the kitchen window.

“Breakfast,” Jon agrees reluctantly. “And then you’ll sit with me and finish that podcast?”

“If you’d like.”

“Always.”

That coaxes a smile from Martin. He’s still washed out, grey-blue bags like bruises beneath his eyes, but he’s thawing out.

“I’ll get the fire going,” Jon says, slipping out the backdoor.

Outside, everything is slick with dew. The cold morning air bites at his skin. Jon shivers, pulling Martin’s thick cardigan closed around him.

The Scottish countryside is beautiful, but out here, winter makes him keenly aware of how weathered his body is. His skin is dry and sore, especially the scars left by worms or knives, or the larger, iris-shapes pockmarks where eyes once blinked open, bloody and all-seeing.

Georgie sends ointment every so often. They never exchange letters, only gifts. Podcast merch. Cat toys for Beans. New wool for Martin.

Jon rounds the farm house. Their two cows, John Keats and Betty, are grazing in the pasture. He can’t see the chickens. He hopes they haven’t been picked off again.

(Martin didn’t cry the first time they lost a chicken; he stared at the bloody feathers, the only thing the fox had left behind, completely silent. Even though they were standing shoulder-to-shoulder, he had felt far away, like there was a pane of glass between Martin and the rest of the world.

It had scared Jon.

Martin had cried the second time a fox had gotten to their chickens, and then driven the half-hour into town to buy supplies to properly fence off their property. When Martin got home, Jon hadn’t waited for him to come inside, just kissed him soundly in the middle of the driveway.)

There is a half-open door by the stack of firewood. Jon has lived here for two years, and in all that time, there has never been a door there.

“I thought you preferred opening doors inside the house,” Jon says, stepping around the tarp-covered kindling.

Helen has gotten into the chicken feed. She’s scattered it over the psychedelic titles in her corridors, and the chickens have blindly slipped through her doorway to peck at the feed. She’s crouched down, watching them.

Jon frowns. “You had better not steal our chickens. Martin will never forgive you.”

“They’re charming,” Helen says, tracing one butcher-knife finger gently down a chicken’s back.

“Can the Spiral even scare chickens? It’s not really an animal fear, is it?”

Helen shrugs and stands. She towers easily over Jon, looming long and lopsided on sensible red heels. “All creatures are capable of fear, Jon.”

Jon looks away. He knows. She knows that he knows.

“I won’t steal your chickens,” she says, “though I would love to have them in my corridors. Not to feed on. Just to have.”

“Just to have?”

“You keep them for the same reason.”

“Martin likes fresh eggs,” Jon says, “but yes, I see your point.”

Helen bobs her head. She watches the chickens as they roam, picking at the last of the feed, investigating the doorway to her corridors before strolling back out onto the wet grass, completely unaware that they had just escaped the belly of the beast.

“Helen,” Jon says.

She looks at him. There are colours and shapes in her eyes that should not be possible. His skin itches. He rubs his arm, and though he can only feel Martin’s worn cardigan against his fingers, he swears he can feel the outline of iris-shaped scars.

“Helen,” he says again, softer this time. “Do you want to stay for breakfast? Martin’s making eggs.”

Helen hums. She doesn’t need to eat, but she’s found she enjoys it. Last time she stayed for breakfast, she ate the eggs like a snake, raw and whole with the shells still on. It made Martin go white. Helen thought it was hilarious.

“Not today,” she says. “I’m visiting Melanie soon.”

She reaches into her suit jacket and pulls out a packet of herbal tea. Jon doesn’t comment on where the tea was hidden, considering the thin linen material of her jacket.

“Thank you,” Jon says, taking the tea. “I’ll be right back.”

He dashes back into the house. Martin is by the stove, eggs already sizzling away.

“Jon? Are we out of firewood? I chopped some just this weekend—”

He holds up the tea. “Helen’s here.”

“Oh!” Martin turns the heat down to low, and then riffles through the pantry, pulling out a carton of eggs and fresh blueberry muffins. “Tell her thank you.”

Jon drops the tea by the kettle, scoops up the eggs and muffins, and heads back towards the firewood. Helen is still there, watching the chickens with fascination.

“We don’t have anything for you, this time,” Jon says. “Sorry. Haven’t been into town much and there’s no tourists dropping by to give us strange souvenirs.”

“That’s alright. I liked seeing the chickens.” Helen shoots him a crooked smile. When she says _chickens_ , Jon thinks she might mean him, too.

“Tell Georgie and Melanie thank you,” Jon says, passing over the eggs and muffins. “And tell the Admiral I say hello and I miss him a lot.”

Helen nods solemnly. She knows how important the Admiral is. Jon is surprised she hasn’t insisted on seeing Beans today, but he supposes she contented herself with the chickens.

“Be seeing you, Jon,” Helen says. It always sounds partially like a threat, coming from her.

Jon stoops to collect an armful of kindling. When he looks up, the door is gone.

He goes inside, lights the fire, and fetches a fresh throw for the couch. In the kitchen, Martin is plating their breakfast and brewing a fresh pot of tea with Georgie and Melanie’s gift.

“Alright?” Martin asks.

There’s colour in Martin’s cheeks again. When Jon reaches out, Martin meets him halfway, lacing their hands together.

“Yeah,” Jon says with a soft smile. “Alright.”

**Author's Note:**

> The podcast mentioned is Wolf 359, the series I recently finished listening to. It’s a wild ride. I definitely recommend it for podcast/scifi fans. 
> 
> Martin and Jon each named a cow, which is how they ended up with Keats and Betty. Martin went for a poet. Jon went for a normal cow name, because a cow deserves to have a nice normal name. It’s a strange combination. 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [captainkirkk](http://captainkirkk.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [just get to tomorrow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28158114) by [Ironic_Swag7782](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ironic_Swag7782/pseuds/Ironic_Swag7782)




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